


Solace

by Zoi no miko (zoi_no_miko)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, EXCEPT IT TOTALLY IS ABOUT ROMANCE, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, M/M, No Spoilers, One Shot, Past Relationship(s), Top John, YOU SCHMOOPY ASSHOLES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:44:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/pseuds/Zoi%20no%20miko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance is a young man's game. Those parts of them died long ago.<br/>It's never been about romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

Romance is a young man's game. Those parts of them died long ago.

It's never been about romance.

The first time John reaches for him, in the silence at the end of the day, Harold isn't surprised. They're both too observant not to have noticed each other's attraction, and they've known each other a respectable enough amount of time to allow this to happen. He appreciates that John is the one to act. He's already asked so much of the man; he'd been uncertain whether or not it would be entirely appropriate to ask for this. Whether John would agree from a sense of duty rather than true willingness. He couldn't be certain.

He feels relief, then, when John acts. He closes his eyes to the warm strength of John's arm around his shoulders, urging Harold into him. The day had been cold and damp; he smells like fine wool and fog with the fleeting remains of burnt gunpowder, and being held against the capable strength of his body sends a shudder of desire down Harold's spine.

He knows that John needs him to accede as much as he needed John to act, so he leans in, tries to relax despite the wild flutter of his heart, and turns his face up to his friend's. He lets his lips nuzzle John's jaw, stubble rough and warm. Then John's hand is on his cheek, cupping his face with tender insistence, and while his kiss is soft, slow and yearning, Harold can feel the weight of intention behind it. His knees feel weak. He wants all of it.

Then he feels a sudden flare of guilt, thinking of Grace, and has to take a moment to breathe. Can he let himself do this, while she's still alive and well? The aching emptiness and longing is suddenly too much to bear. It's been so long since he's been close to anyone....

"Shhh," John murmurs, as if his thoughts are far louder than his silence. He presses a soft kiss to his temple, just under the arm of his glasses. "It's alright."

Harold sighs, and turns his mouth up to find his again. It's not alright, what he feels, and it never will be. No matter how many afternoons he sits in the cold and watches her from the anonymity of the crowd. But it's alright to feel these things. This loss that he sees reflected when he looks in John's eyes. He should take solace in the knowledge that Grace, at least, is still alive. But he can't, not when Jessica is his failure. 

"I'm sorry," he says, stricken with regret. He doesn't deserve this. "John, I - "

"Don't." The command is barely whispered against his mouth. "Just come home with me. Stop being this. Just for a few hours."

Stop being this. Once he felt like he could step into a new identity at the drop of a hat. Now this - the machine, the numbers, the desperation and futile attempts to fight death - this is all he is. But perhaps, for just a few hours... in the company of the only man in the world he can truly trust....

Harold lets go, and John, as he always does, catches him.

~~~

John always seems to know, somehow, when he needs it most. When the grind of their work or the heartache of a failed mission is too much to bear alone. When memories of the past haunt him, weigh him down too much to take another step. Harold appreciates his friend's intuition far more than he can ever give words to.

"Come home with me," John's voice is soft and low and warm. Today is a good day; despite the things they've had to do, they've won. The triumph of winning is never as much of a celebration as it should be, not when the numbers will always keep coming. But it brings with it a sense of relief, and today John's words come with a soft smile that crinkles at the corners of his clear blue eyes. "Unless you'd rather go to yours."

Harold can't help but laugh softly. "I'm a very private person, Mr. Reese."

"Of course," John replies, but he's still smiling. He's smiling when he kisses him, slow and sweet, when he wraps an arm around Harold's waist, supporting him just a little as he takes him downstairs. They can't do this outside of the library, of course, but for the moment he enjoys it, this warm, reassuring display of John's strength.

John's apartment is reassuringly familiar to him, filled with the things he'd picked out with John in mind. The truth of the matter is that he likes it here more than any of his own apartments: the small, discreet safe houses he moves between when he sleeps alone, one for every bird in the aviary. Comfortable, but necessarily austere.

It feels safe here, even with the huge panes of glass looming dark behind the curtains, naked to the outside world. It feels safe because John permeates every inch of the space, the man's quiet determination and fierce protectiveness far more reassuring than even the arsenal he knows John keeps in the closet. The floor plan is familiar, with every hour he's spent here with John making the place more familiar and comfortable. If John's realized this, he's never remarked on it, though he always seems happy to have Harold in his space. If he suspects the truth - that one of the reasons Harold bought this place was in the hopes that they could, on occasion, share it - he's never directly asked Harold to confirm.

Here feels like home.

"Wine?" John offers, after he's locked and deadbolted the door. The offer is a pleasantry today. He knows what they both want, and when Finch shakes his head and turns his face up to him he takes the wordless invitation, drawing him into another kiss.

It's not romantic. That's not what they are. But there's a mutual understanding that comes with age that this is not to be rushed. Harold appreciates it, appreciates being able to give himself over to John's kisses and stop thinking. John kisses much like he does everything else - with thoughtful, skilled precision and a hint of unpredictability. He kisses with an intense focus that overwhelms Harold completely. It's a relief, to lose himself to the heat of John's kisses, to wrap his arms up around his shoulders and feel his pulse quicken with arousal instead of worry or fear. To be the sole focus of John's strength and support, his broad hands warm as they stroke up under Harold's jacket and over his waist.

John undresses them like a ritual - first his own jacket and shirt, and Harold finds it both arousing and grounding at once to be able to touch him, running his fingers over the braille of scars old and new, feeling his muscles shift and tense underneath. His friend undoes his tie with skilled dexterity regardless of how complex the knot Harold has chosen, scattering soft, warm kisses along his skin as he unbuttons his jacket, his vest, his shirt. Each layer is peeled away, accompanied by kisses that grow more demanding, with soft, approving little hums of pleasure as John strokes his fingers over his bare skin.

Harold knows that he is not, and has never been an attractive man, and the rational part of his mind feels like he should feel acutely inferior next to the beautiful strength of John's body. Instead he feels protected, worshiped, cherished. Being the singular focus of John Reese's attention is overwhelmingly arousing, and by the time John's fingers tug at his belt he's already overwhelmingly hard. John cups his hand against the length of his erection through the wool of his trousers - a high thread count merino, so he can't let himself ruin these despite wanting to grind up against John's palm like a desperate teenager - and smiles as his caress pulls a breathless moan from Harold's throat.

Harold bites his lip, fingers digging into his shoulders. "Mr. Reese...."

"Shouldn't we be on a first name basis by now, Harold?" John's words tease warm against his ear, and he nips lightly at the lobe.

It's a formality that is always hard to let go of, despite how he thinks of John. Despite how aroused he might be. But John's playfulness today is encouraging. Harold draws back, running his fingers up the length of John's neck and into his hair, stroking through the strands of silver at his temples. John's expression holds so much ardent tenderness that for a moment he can't speak. You're beautiful, he wants to say. Exquisitely. Overwhelmingly. Instead, he murmurs, "John, please take me to bed."

Here, too, John is always careful with him, a necessity born of the limitations of Harold's battered body. But somehow he's never seemed restrained. John's hands are a brand of pleasure as they map his form, lips burning hot on Harold's skin as he kisses his chest. They come hotter and hungrier still in response to the soft, needy moans he manages to coax from Harold's lips. When he moves to nuzzle Harold's cock he's almost teasing in contrast, dropping soft kisses and little licks up the length of his shaft as his thick fingers press inside him, careful and slick. 

John sucks at the underside of his cock, flicking his tongue against the stretched-tight skin, fingers twisting inside him, and stars burst behind Harold's eyes at the rush of pleasure. It's achingly good, and on tough days, when the extremities of their work have left Harold bruised and nearly overwhelmed with pain, John will soothe him like this, drawing him to release with little thought for his own pleasure. Today, though, is a good day, and in moments Harold is gasping in pleasure, nearly writhing under him, craving more. "John... oh god, please...."

John always has supplies close at hand, as well as the firm foam wedge that definitely didn't come with the apartment, which he slides under Harold's hips. He presses little distracted kisses to Harold's skin, breath heavy even as he arranges him with practiced care, pushing his knees up almost to his chest to relieve the pressure on Harold's aching back. Then he smiles, soft and sweet, dipping his head to nuzzle a kiss to his mouth as he starts to press inside him.

His breath catches at the aching rush of pleasure, fingers digging into John's back. "Oh, yes..."

There have been precious few people in Harold's life that he has allowed himself to be intimate with, and even fewer men. Memories of Nathan flicker briefly across his mind, unbidden: their time together at MIT and the few times after that he'd allowed that intimacy again. The pain of his loss hits hard, and he fights to push it away, to focus on the here and now.

He must have tensed, because John stills, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Are you alright?"

His concern is so immediate and genuine that Harold doesn't have to force his smile. "I'm sorry. I'm fine."

"If your back - "

"I'm fine," Harold murmurs again, reaching up to cup John's face and draw him down into a kiss. His voice thickens on a moan as John shifts inside him, hot and hard and perfect. "I'm so good, John."

John sighs in pleasure as he pushes into him again, and they find rhythm in slow, deep thrusts, an unhurried build of sensation as they rock together. He'd never dream of being so selfish as to keep this all to himself, to demand exclusivity when that's not what they are. But he appreciates John's care and single minded focus, winding one hand in John's hair to hold him to hungry, possessive kisses that soon grow breathless and distracted with passion. 

He can barely think, under this onslaught of pleasure. John rolls his hips into him with practiced precision until each thrust is ecstasy, until he's crying out helplessly against John's mouth, body shaking with the need for release. Then John pushes himself up, one broad hand pressing Harold's cock into his stomach so that the thrusts of his hips grind his shaft along the length of his palm. John's eyes close in concentration as he moves harder, bringing him to a fever pitch of pleasure, the intensity of stimulation almost too much to bear but not quite yet enough. Harold lifts a hand to tangle in his hair, needing an anchor, and John presses his lips to his wrist, breathlessly mouthing kisses, nipping at his skin. His voice is rough with pleasure, but helpless. "Harold... fuck...."

Seeing John clinging so desperately to self-control as his hips stutter into him is somehow intensely gratifying, one last bit of cerebral stimulation that pushes him over the edge. In moments he's coming undone, gasping raggedly as his whole body shudders with pleasure, intensified by a few last ragged thrusts of John's cock. The overwhelming rush is bright hot and perfect, completely eclipses every hardship, every piece of remembered pain. 

Everything but John.

John eases away from him before it becomes too much to handle, leaning in to press breathless, trembling kisses to his lips. His body is bowstring taut in his embrace, shuddering with need, and Harold reaches between them to take him in hand, tugging off the condom to feel the silken slide of John's skin against his palm. John pushes into his fingers without encouragement, hips stuttering in a few ragged, desperate thrusts. Harold feels his cock pulse in his grasp as his lover finally finds release, and he moans, overwhelmed with a warm, deep satisfaction from the sensation of John spending himself in his fingers. 

John groans his orgasm against Harold lips, low and relieved. He half sags into him, though Harold can feel his arms tremble in an effort to remain upright. He tugs John down against him insistently, until John finally lets his full weight rest on him, nuzzling his face into Harold neck. His breath pants hot against Harold's skin as he comes down. For a long moment Harold just closes his eyes, mind empty of everything but the heady bliss of the moment. Of John's body, warm and heavy against his own.

Finally John nuzzles a kiss into the hollow under his ear, then carefully presses up, taking his weight off him. His smile is warm, fond and peaceful as he looks down at him. "Are you alright?"

"Certainly." Harold smiles and lets himself reach up to cup his face, fingertips brushing against those perfectly handsome features. He can excuse himself for feeling maudlin in these moments when he knows his brain is muddled with dopamine and oxytocin and all the lovely, post-sex drugs. "You're exquisite," he murmurs, and watches John glance away with a soft laugh.

John is still smiling as he kisses him, slow and sweet. "So are you," he murmurs, and Harold's so blissed out that he lets himself believe it.

It will never be enough to make the pain go away for good. He's seen too much, lost too many for that. John knows this, feels it as acutely as he does.

But for a few bright, fleeting moments he can find solace. In the life they lead, it means everything.

It's enough to continue.

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Hello new fandom!! How was this little bit of smutty Rinch feels? How are you? What do you like? Are you excited for the new season? Are you frantically marathoning S4 like I am to catch up on all these FEELS and ridiculous shipping? Talk to me. LET'S HAVE FEELS TOGETHER. :D


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